


Dysfunction

by snarkyscorp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkyscorp/pseuds/snarkyscorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is having ED problems. He visits Healer Malfoy, who helps him get it up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dysfunction

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://hp-kinkfest.livejournal.com/profile)[**hp_kinkfest**](http://hp-kinkfest.livejournal.com/), as my own prompt. Thanks terribly to my lovely beta for a suuuuuper last minute beta and assistance. You are amazing.

  
**Dysfunction**   


It was embarrassing enough admitting the problem to Ginny; when she recommended he speak to a healer, Harry nearly pitched his dinner. The problem was a _personal_ one, something he didn't care to share with a random stranger. Even if that random stranger happened to be a healer, someone trained to understand every physical and mental ailment, Harry was a skeptic of the mental healer profession in general. He'd never been big on sharing his emotions or problems—hell, it had taken him three years after the end of the war just to tell Ginny about his final walk to the Forbidden Forest; how in the world was he supposed to talk to someone about something drastically less significant to the world but no less monumental to Harry?

_"I've made you an appointment," Ginny said one night after dinner, holding both Harry's cheeks gently in her palms. "You can go or not, but it's there if you need it."_

Ginny was annoyingly supportive of his problem. Why couldn't she get mad and throw things like any normal, recently-divorced witch had the right to do? Why did she have to be so kind and understanding about it? In the early days of their marriage, she'd been more of a firecracker than a lover, exploding over both the little things and the big. With age came a mellowed-out, warm-hearted woman, and Harry loved her just as much as her fiery younger self, but he wished for a bit of her powder-keg sincerity in times like these. Even their divorce had been underwhelming (a blessing, all things considered), where Harry expected fireworks, there were mere fizzles of anger and frustration. In the end, it all worked out for the best, which was great where divorces were concerned but not where talking to an ex about these kinds of problems was.

Harry didn't need someone who understood—he needed someone to rip the problem out by the roots and set it on fire. Preferably in a metaphoric way.

Still, his predicament was grave, and having found no other means of resolving it, Harry kept the appointment that Ginny made and paced around the lobby of the small ward in St. Mungo's, a half hour anxiously early. He was in decidedly lower spirits after having given his name to the petite witch at the counter. She had been staring at him ever since, as if she couldn't believe he was real. Harry assumed he'd need to dodge some serious _Daily Prophet_ headlines in the morning.

_Great._

"Mr. Potter?" the witch timidly called out. When Harry turned to face her, she was already standing at the door to the healer's office, holding it open. "You can go in now."

Harry smiled as kindly as he could muster given the state of his nerves and walked into the small office. The door latched shut behind him noisily; Harry couldn't help the jostle of anxiety that bubbled up to the surface. The room was quiet, a large wood desk in the back centre in front of a window, two leather chairs, a comfortable-looking suede couch, and a coffee table that had a few magazines artistically spread out on it. Harry wondered what kind of person would read during therapy.

A noise from the far side caught his attention. Harry turned and nearly tripped over himself trying to straighten up, bumble forwards, and sit down all at once. The healer was standing at a small wet bar, fixing himself what appeared to be a cup of tea, but Harry wasn't looking at the tea. He was looking at the slicked-back white-blond hair, the bordering-on-bony shoulders, the sharp jut of body parts that could only have belonged to one person. It made Harry see red.

" _Malfoy_?!" Harry balked, raising his clenched fists, his expression on the verge of madness. How dare Malfoy play this kind of prank on him? How had he gotten into this office? Did he know about Harry's condition? "You've got some nerve—"

Harry stopped suddenly, his voice stuttering to a halt. As Malfoy turned to face him, Harry realised with a start that it was the wrong Malfoy he was about to pummel. The young man before him looked like his father, surely—the same white-blond hair, similar pointy features, an air of superiority in the tilt of his chin—but a Draco at twenty-two, not a Draco at forty-eight. Harry floundered for what he should say: an apology was ridiculous—Draco's son was still a Malfoy, would probably run home to Daddy with all sorts of things to say about Harry's condition. But yelling at Scorpius also seemed just as unfair.

To Harry's surprise, Scorpius smiled at him and raised both his hands in what could only be considered a peaceful surrender. "It's all right, Mr. Potter," he said, in a calm, even tone, like he was talking a kitten down from a misguided height. "I am well aware of the history between my father and yourself, and I have no interest in furthering any of those ancient biases. I'm here to help, and I am sworn under Unbreakable Vows to keep silent in sensitive matters such as these." He lowered his hands and approached Harry with even, measured steps. "Your secret is safe with me."

"I, erm, would hope so," Harry stammered, trying desperately to hold onto control in this situation, though he was completely winded already. How was he supposed to trust Malfoy's kid? And on that subject, why was some _kid_ assigned to his therapy and not some older healer, who maybe had a better grasp on Harry's situation? Just looking at Scorpius, Harry could tell he wasn't the kind of bloke who had any trouble getting it up for the ladies. Or for other blokes. Scorpius probably had girlfriends and boyfriends on standby for whenever he broke up with his current squeeze.

"Would you like to have a seat?" Scorpius asked, both brows quirked up in question as he cradled his teacup in one hand. "Or you can continue to hover nervously at the front of the office; whatever's comfortable for you. Myself, I'm going to get cozy."

Harry blinked dumbly and slowly lowered himself into a perched seat at the edge of the couch, which was indeed as comfortable as it looked. He glanced around, half-expecting Draco to waltz in and announce that the _Daily Prophet_ would be in to take photographs shortly. When he looked back at Scorpius, he was met with a serene but interested stare.

"You don't normally talk to other people about your problems, do you, Mr. Potter?" Scorpius asked, the ghost of a smile at his lips.

"Erm, no," Harry said. "Is it that obvious?"

Scorpius leaned back and that would-be-smile spread into a full-length grin. "You're still hovering."

Harry gave a nervous sort of chuckle and slid back on the couch, sinking into the cushions. His knees raised a bit the lower he sank, and he was reminded of being eleven years old in front of Professor Snape for the first time. Setting both hands in his lap didn't help and neither did letting them hang at his sides. He was all too conscious of Scorpius' assertive gaze, following his every move. Merlin's balls, what he probably thought of the Great Harry Potter now.

"It would probably help if you were truly comfortable, Mr. Potter," Scorpius said finally, after a time spent in silence. "Perhaps you'd rather stand? Or here, try this chair."

Scorpius stood up and gestured to where he'd been sitting. Harry gave him a weak smile and hauled himself out of the couch and settled into the leather. Instantly, he felt more at ease, no longer appearing like some kid too young to sit at the adult table.

"Better?" Scorpius asked.

"Much," Harry said.

"Fantastic." Scorpius lowered gently into the suede couch, his nimble body barely moving the creases of fabric under his weight. "Now, shall we talk about why you're here?"

Harry could feel his face growing hot. "I… Well, a friend of mine referred me." He sighed. "Honestly, I'm not much for…this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing is that?"

"The sort of thing where I tell you that I had no reliable father figure growing up, married the first girl who ever truly cared about me, and had kids before I was ready," Harry blurted, face absolutely burning.

Scorpius leaned forward, attentively. "You don't have to tell me any of that."

"I know what you're going to say," Harry added, not really listening. "It's either, _Harry Potter was abused and never truly found his sexual identity_ or it'll just be, _oh, it's because you're getting on in years, Mr. Potter_ , and I honestly don't care for either of those reasons as a diagnosis."

The room went quiet. Harry hadn't meant to say it all like that, but it was exactly what he'd been thinking since the moment he told Ginny about his little problem. He had a horrible childhood that was just now rearing the consequences at him, or he was too old to get it up anymore. Both reasons made him feel ill. He wasn't _that_ old, and plenty of people with bad childhoods still fooled around.

"I didn't mean to say all that," Harry mumbled, looking away. He couldn't stand the way Scorpius was looking at him. "I don't know why I did."

"You're scared," Scorpius said quietly. "You think I'm going to judge you. But, Mr. Potter, this problem isn't really your issue, is it?" At Harry's puzzled, stormy look, Scorpius amended, "Your erectile dysfunction. I don't quite believe that's what it is."

Harry let out a dull, empty laugh. "Yeah, well, tell that to Martin Aldridge."

"Who's—"

"The bloke I tried to fuck last week and couldn't," Harry snapped. He pushed himself to his feet. "Listen, I appreciate your help, but I really don't think this is for me."

Scorpius jumped to his feet a second later and stepped directly into Harry's personal space. "No."

Harry bristled but stood his ground. _No_? Very, very few people ever told Harry no, and none of them ever did it like that, with a growl in their voice, like they were trying to initiate a pissing contest. Harry found it got right under his skin.

"You can't keep me here against my will," Harry said, growling in turn, his voice a low, dark rumble.

One of Scorpius' eyebrows rose in challenge. "Oh? Then you don't think me capable of a simple _Incarcerous_? Nor a silencing charm?"

The wand in Harry's pocket seemed to be burning a hole through his robes. Harry itched to grab it, to show Scorpius that he was no match. For some reason, he didn't.

"I think it would go against your code of conduct," Harry said, trying to keep his voice even with little success.

Scorpius chuckled. "You don't believe healers _have_ a code of conduct, Mr. Potter, so why should I adhere to one?" Scorpius stepped closer, until it was clear just how tall Scorpius was—he had a head and a half on Harry. "I think I can do you some good, so why not bind you to my couch to keep you still? And gag your mouth, while I'm at it."

Harry felt something familiar uncoiling in his stomach, tightening, heating up. The backs of his knees hit the couch and they felt like jelly, like one wrong move would have them buckled under his weight. His face was hot again, hotter than before, but different. There was humiliation, fear, but something else, something dangerous.

"What's the matter, Harry?"

The use of his first name caught Harry so off guard that his eyes widened. Scorpius had been so professional until right then. Scorpius leaned in, lowering his head at an angle that Harry knew all too well—he was moving in for a kiss. His lips breathed against Harry's so close that Harry could smell the scent of his toothpaste, and against his better judgment, Harry felt himself leaning in, leaning up, closing his eyes. It had been a while. Most of his so-called dates didn't care for kissing, but Harry did. Harry cared quite a lot about it, in fact.

"Your mind says no, but your body? It's singing a different song," Scorpius whispered.

Harry couldn't help the groan that slipped past his lips. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, saliva building, every nerve in his body tight in anticipation. Just as their lips were about to meet, Scorpius pulled away. Harry felt the wind of the movement rustle his clothes. When he opened his eyes, Scorpius was smiling at him from a safe distance away.

"There," Scorpius said, gesturing.

Harry was about to snarl some remark or another when Scorpius gestured again. Harry followed the direction of his motion, down between his own legs, and felt a jolt of realisation wash over him.

"I'm—"

"Hard," Scorpius said, smile widening. "Yes. I quite thought you might be." He waved towards the couch. "Now, would you like to know why?"

Harry didn't even argue; he sat down quickly, still staring like an idiot at his ever-growing erection. It was embarrassing but more than that, it was wonderful. It had been…well, it was embarrassing just how long he'd gone without getting hard in front of someone else. It was fine to do other things with blokes, but Harry missed sex and connection and actually having a relationship with someone who loved him, instead of giving random blowjobs in the loo of the Leaky to men who saw him under glamours and thought his issue was frustrating.

"Why?" Harry asked. He shifted, shaking his head. "You're attractive, sure. You're young. But, no offense, you're not my type. So…why?"

Scorpius looked like he was having a hard time holding back a laugh. "Mr. Potter, have you ever bottomed?"

Instantly, Harry said, "No." He shook his head. "I don't understand what that's got to—"

"Because you obviously want to bottom." At Harry's affronted look, Scorpius stood up and sat beside him on the couch. Harry was all too aware of just how close they were, how close Scorpius' thin thigh was to his own. "I'm not trying to offend you. There's absolutely nothing wrong with bottoming."

"But I've never wanted to," Harry argued. "Never. Not once."

Scorpius quirked a brow in that annoying way that Harry was starting to see meant he understood something Harry didn't. "So, if I offered to bend you over the couch right now and have my way with you, you'd refuse?"

"Yes," Harry snarled. "I don't—"

"Bottom, right. Of course not. However, you're getting hard again."

Harry looked shamefully down between his legs. Bugger, bugger, shit, bugger! His body was obviously on a completely different track than his mind, which protested the very idea of bottoming on principle. Harry didn't have anything against people who bottomed—bully for them, really—but he was just not that kind of man. It required a sense of openness and intimacy that he doubted he'd ever be able to possess. Harry opened his mouth to argue again, but nothing came out.

Scorpius lay a hand on Harry's shoulder. It forced Harry's attention up, to his eyes, which, now that he really looked at them, were a lot softer than Draco's, a lot gentler. In fact, his whole face had a much smoother shape. Scorpius was quite handsome, his white-blond hair slicked back professionally, his sharp chin strong and masculine, his cheeks high, his whole face so pale, pristine, and flawless that it looked like he could have been carved from pure, white marble.

"Mr. Potter, may I tell you what I think your real problem is? And you can feel free to tell me I'm mad, of course, but you should hear me out before you jump off that cliff blindly."

Harry didn't trust his mouth right then, so he just nodded instead.

"I think you want—I think you _need_ to lose complete control."

Scorpius was right. He was _mad_. Completely and utterly insane. He must have sensed Harry's thoughts, because his expression hardened a bit.

"Hear me out." Scorpius' grip on his shoulder tightened a little. "Everyone knows you. Your history is our history, your life has become as much a part of our schooling as learning about Defense Against the Dark Arts, and when you walk down the street, a hundred witches and wizards turn their heads to stare at you." Scorpius paused, gauging Harry's expressions. The way Scorpius looked at him, it seemed he was trying to puzzle Harry out. "That's a lot of pressure weighing you down. Of course you'd say you don't bottom, because that would require you to give up some of the control you are so desperately clinging to. The fact that you have had partners sexually before where you were on top frankly astonishes me." At Harry's shift in posture, Scorpius pressed on, holding a finger up to silence him. "It's not about being masculine or not, Mr. Potter, and I know that's what you're thinking. It's about losing control and reveling in that loss, that inhibition, that freedom. Imagine it, just for a moment—you, face-down on a bed or thrown over some couch, a handsome man behind you about to shove himself in to the hilt, and there is absolutely _nothing_ you can do about it."

Harry was breathless, and the little problem between his legs was growing into something much bigger. His prick was filling, balls starting that dull throb that told Harry he did indeed want the things Scorpius was describing.

"Close your eyes," Scorpius said.

To perhaps both of their equaled shocks, Harry did. Scorpius' voice surrounded him, the hand on his shoulder like a firm tether to reality.

"Picture yourself in a room of your choosing. It is a comfortable room. One that you know well. The kind of room you always find yourself in with another man."

Scorpius paused, and Harry used the silence to select a room. The one above the Leaky Cauldron, where Harry had taken a few blokes in the past. It was a small room, Number 15 in the corner. Harry always threw a blanket over the talking mirror, which he imagined he would do now as well. The window would be cool, overlooking Charing Cross Road, but the drapes would be drawn, the lights low, except for a few flickering candles that bathed the pale bed sheets in light yellows and oranges.

"You are comfortable on the bed," Scorpius went on. "You are naked."

Harry tensed a bit, but Scorpius squeezed his shoulder, grounding him.

"You are naked," Scorpius repeated. Harry found the repetition soothing. "There is another man in the room with you. He is naked, too. He tells you to lay down on your stomach on the bed. You do not think about what you are doing, because it feels so natural to you—you do it without question or pause."

Harry could imagine it more clearly than he would have admitted ten minutes ago. The bloke was a faceless young man, but Harry unfortunately knew he had white-blond hair without question. Harry imagined him well-built, though skinny, with sharp angles drawing his body, and a slender, hard prick arched up to his flat stomach. Harry pictured himself laying on the bed as Scorpius told him to, face-down, arse-up, vulnerable.

"You are comfortable there, on your stomach," Scorpius whispered. "The man in the room tells you to spread your legs. _Wider_ , he says."

Harry moaned. On the bed or sitting on Scorpius' couch, he spread his legs. Wide and then wider.

" _Even wider_ , he says," Scorpius breathed. His voice was so, so quiet, barely there, like a secret between them.

Harry spread his legs wider, as wide as he could manage. Merlin, he wished he could spread them further. He could see himself on that bed in that room above the Leaky, Scorpius behind him, his pale fingers palming his length, his greedy eyes on Harry's prone arse and naked thighs.

"You are more comfortable than you have ever been, with your legs spread and your face buried in the covers, aren't you?"

Harry nodded, though he wasn't aware of it. "Yes. So comfortable."

"And when the man in the room moves closer and stands behind your naked arse, you don't flinch or feel fear. You embrace the flutter of anxiety building in your stomach when he kneels on the bed behind you, because you know that what is about to happen is consensual and pleasurable. You know you are going to feel more pleasure than you ever have in your life. You know you are under his control but free, that when you come, your orgasm is going to weaken your knees."

A grunt slipped past Harry's lips. His head fell back onto the warm, comfortable suede cushions, and in his mind, he was shivering in wait for Scorpius' hands to fall on his hips, his arse, to tickle the hairs on his thighs, to cup his bollocks, to stroke his spine. Harry wanted more. Needed more. His body was aching, throbbing, his prick so hard that he could barely stand it.

"Slowly, the man in the room is going to pry your arse open," Scorpius went on. Every word was like a stroke to Harry's prick, eager but measured, like Scorpius knew all the right ways to please him without hurry. "He lubes his fingers, presses them inside you. You know what that feels like, what he must be feeling, because you've felt it before, on the other side. You don't move. You're still comfortable but burning too, in the best of ways, as he slicks you up and widens your hole."

Another grunt sprang from Harry's mouth, heavy in the air around them. Scorpius' fingers were inside him in that bedroom, and Harry was making noises fit to rouse the neighbours. He was sweating and lightheaded, in so much pleasure that his toes were literally curling and he thought about screaming for Scorpius to get on with it and fuck him already. But Scorpius took his time, adding another finger, spreading Harry tenderly, no rush or frantic motions. Scorpius pried him open with care, and Harry let him eagerly, leaving a patch of drool on the bed linens.

"The man takes both his thumbs and gingerly widens you further, prying your arse wide open. You're obscene to him. He can almost see inside you when his face gets near, but you're too comfortable to care. _You can make as much noise as you like_ , he tells you. _Go on. Moan and beg for it_. You do. You love every second of it."

"Merlin's fucking balls," Harry panted. "I love it. Please, don't stop. I can't last—"

" _Yes, you can_ , he says." Scorpius' voice was so low now, his lips scant inches from Harry's ear. " _And you will. Do you understand me? You will not come until I tell you_ , he says."

"Yes." Harry could barely manage to hold himself back. With Scorpius' fingers inside him, his breath ghosting over his spread arsehole, it was all almost too much. "Yes, I understand."

" _Good_ , he says. And now the man in the room removes his fingers but keeps you spread. So wide. So open. So vulnerable. There's nothing you can do but wait while he looks at you, touches you, just how he wants. And then, just when you think you can't hold on another second, he thrusts his tongue inside your arse as deep as he can go. He can taste every part of your body—your sweat, the lube, your specific taste."

Harry's body sizzled. He could feel Scorpius' tongue jabbing inside, deep and hard and fast, just how Harry liked to do it to his partners—showing no mercy. Harry never let another man do that to him, never let a man get close in that way, but now Harry couldn't help but wonder why. It felt incredible, like Scorpius was connected to him in the deepest way imaginable, physically and emotionally. Harry floated above himself, lost in that room above the Leaky, soaring in ecstasy of what was to come.

"When the man is finally through with his tongue, he doesn't waste a second. You don't want him to. You're impatient and overeager, mouthing at the sheets to muffle your screams. He takes you how he wants you, thrusts in to your deepest parts in one go. You can feel the weight of his heavy balls against your arse as he moves, as he thrusts, as he begins to ride you like an animal, and there's absolutely no escape, no reason you would want to escape. As he pierces your arse, he tells you over and over again until you comply, _Release. Come for me, Harry_."

Unable to wait beyond the first command, Harry came. In a whoosh of pleasure, he thrashed on the couch and let Scorpius fuck him as he came and came and came. It felt as if an endless dam had been released, the floodgates open and pouring free for the first time in Merlin only knew how long. Had he ever come like that? Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good, so uninhibited and free.

For a time, the room was silent. Scorpius had stopped speaking, though Harry wasn't sure when. Waves of satisfaction rolled through Harry's body time and again, as he sank further against the bed and let euphoria overwhelm and dull his senses.

And then suddenly, it hit Harry: he wasn't in room Number 15 at the Leaky, he wasn't on his knees on the bed, and Scorpius wasn't fucking him—they were in a small office in St. Mungo's. Harry was on Scorpius' couch. Scorpius was his healer. Harry had just come in his trousers.

Just as Harry seemed to realize what had happened, he felt a shift beside him, heard the creak of the suede couch. When Harry opened his eyes, Scorpius was on his feet, striding confidently towards his desk. He seemed unbearably far away, like Harry might never be close to him again.

Harry took a chance and looked down. He peeled aside a corner of his robes and winced. As he'd thought, a thick, wet stain clung about his trousers over the lump of his waning erection. A brief feeling of humiliation washed over him and then passed. It wasn't his fault that Scorpius talked like that. It was just a fantasy. Harry couldn't help himself.

After a minute, he swept his robes back over his soiled trousers, stood on wobbling legs, and cleared his throat. Scorpius turned to face him with a calm smile, and Harry could have died. Did he do this with all his patients? Torment them with their deepest fantasies until they broke like children? The anger that flooded him dissipated as quickly as it came. He found himself thinking that it wasn't Scorpius' fault, no matter how absurd he knew that thought to be.

"I suppose you're happy with yourself," Harry said dully. He had the decency to wipe his arm across his brow to clear it of the sweat that had gathered there. "Merlin."

"Mr. Potter," Scorpius said. It caught Harry's attention, the authority in his young voice. They stared at one another, Harry trying to well up all the anger he could and Scorpius looking so sodding collected that it only made Harry feel worse. "You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. Isn't the fact that you were able to hold an erection to climax considered something of a success, considering that you thought you had a dysfunction when you arrived here not an hour earlier?"

Scorpius' reasoning winded Harry, who teetered a bit and glanced aside. "Well," he grumbled, "When you put it _that_ way."

With a chuckle, Scorpius approached and held out his hand. "I doubt you will require my services again, Mr. Potter," he said. Harry numbly shook his hand but was unable to meet his gaze. "If you'll see my secretary outside, she can advise you how to reach me, should you…relapse or the like."

It was Harry's turn to laugh. He felt high. The euphoria must have left him loopy. He continued to shake Scorpius' hand until it was becoming an issue trying to let go and Scorpius had to tenderly pry his fingers off.

"Good day, Mr. Potter, and good luck," Scorpius said, opening the door for Harry.

Once outside the office, the sights and sounds of the reality he lived in crashed around him, a cacophony of noise he didn't want to deal with. Scorpius' secretary was explaining something to him about contact options for follow-ups when Harry turned back towards the office and barged in. Scorpius was sitting behind his desk, writing on some parchment, but he paused and looked up when Harry entered.

"You can't just go in without informing him," his secretary was crying. "Mr. Potter, please—"

"Are you free Friday night?" Harry blurted. Both the secretary and Scorpius looked at him like he'd just asked for Voldemort to be brought back from the dead. "Erm, or Saturday? Weekdays aren't great for me—full-time Auror, you know, so…" Harry trailed dumbly off and looked at Scorpius with a stirring of hope in his gut.

The silence lasted far too long. Just as Harry started to apologise and excuse himself, Scorpius stood up and chuckled.

"Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Potter?"

" _Harry_ ," he replied. "Just, call me Harry."

"Mmm. Well, it just so happens I'm free Sunday evening." He held out a business card, on the back of which he had carefully written a street address. "My home address," he said, smiling as Harry's confused and thankful look. "Swing by at seven. I'm sure if you have any need for a follow-up, I can do the examination at that time myself. Though, I highly doubt you'll be having any reason for concern."

Harry grinned. He didn't think he'd have that problem again either.


End file.
